


Torture Torture

by icandrawamoth



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [12]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: X-Wing Series - Aaron Allston & Michael Stackpole
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Gen, Heartbeats, I'm never sure which to tag, Long-Distance Relationship, Lusankya, M/M, Panic Attacks, Psychological Torture, Torture, badthingshappenbingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 08:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17220185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icandrawamoth/pseuds/icandrawamoth
Summary: “Good morning, Tycho,” Ysanne Isard says smoothly as she steps into view in front of him, and the intimidation factor of the forced familiarity rankles as much as it did the first day. And she sounds cheerful. That's always a bad sign.





	Torture Torture

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a vaguely-constructed au where Wedge and Tycho have chips implanted in their arms that allow them to feel each other's heartbeats. (Similiar to those heartbeat pillows, but y'know, in space.)
> 
> For badthingshappenbingo square "cold-blooded torture."
> 
>  **Warnings:** anxiety, panic attacks, and the deliberate provocation of same as a form of torture

Testing his restraints is useless. That was one of the first things Tycho learned. Isard's lackeys never make a mistake in securing and tightening them, and even if they did, what would be the point? He would never escape the room before he was subdued. No, if he'd going to escape, it's not going to be in the middle of a torture session.

The door opens, and his pulse jumps. It's her.

“Good morning, Tycho,” Ysanne Isard says smoothly as she steps into view in front of him, and the intimidation factor of the forced familiarity rankles as much as it did the first day. And she sounds cheerful. That's always a bad sign.

Tycho says nothing, though he could. This is a torture session, not an interrogation, but she never bothers to gag him. He thinks she likes to hear the sounds he makes when she gets going. Either way, he swallows rebellious retorts. He's also learned that though acting submissive won't stop the pain, fighting back only brings it on quicker and harder.

“Someone's chatty,” Isard muses dryly. “Let me tell you what I've got for you today, then.” She grins, cold as transparisteel, an expression that doesn't meet her mismatched eyes. “I've been studying your files more deeply, Tycho, and I've found something interesting. It seems that shortly after you joined your little Rebellion, you were diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. Something that had come up now and then throughout your life but was greatly exacerbated by the destruction of your home planet of Alderaan. You nearly had your flight clearance revoked several times in the face of your repeated panic attacks.”

Tycho feels himself begin to sweat. He has no idea what Isard will do with the information, but he's already terrified. He can feel that selfsame anxiety crawling up the back of his throat and tries to swallow it, tries desperately to calm his already-racing heart.

Isard's lips curl again. “You'll be starting to feel your pulse increase right about now. Courtesy of a very handy little drug slipped into your last meal. A simple stimulant, really, but for someone like you...” She lets the sentence hang in the air.

Tycho tears his gaze away from her, clenching his hands into fists. He won't lose control. He doesn't want to lose control. He's lost control before.

“Perhaps this will help.” Isard pulls out a remote, taps a button, and a screen rolls down across the wall. An image appears on it.

A familiar image. Tycho's throat goes utterly dry. An expanse of stars, and in the middle a planet. Green and blue and pristine. To the left, another sphere: dark gray and anything but natural. The Death Star. Alderaan.

Tycho squeezes his eyes closed, breath harsh through his nose. He's seen this footage before. He knows what happens next.

A jolt of electricity runs through the rack, barely enough to hurt, just enough to firmly grab his attention, but it still makes him cry out.

Isard tsks. “I brought you a show. It would be rude not to watch it.”

Tycho forces his eyes back to the screen and tries to distance himself. Watching it happen again won't make a difference, he tells himself. It happened. It's done. Alderaan has been gone for five years, and–

None of that stops the pitiful, pained noise that punches out of him when he watches it explode again like a fragile balloon lanced by a verdant needle. His heart squeezes painfully in his chest, breath growing short, and he fights to keep himself steady.

Tycho hasn't had a panic attack in years, and he can't afford to have one now, vulnerable at Isard's mercy. It terrifies him to think how she'd use it against him, and that certainly doesn't help.

“Shall we watch again?” Isard asks smoothly, and the recording restarts.

Tycho stares through it, tries to put his mind's eye on anything but what he's seeing.

“You were with the Empire then,” Isard says thoughtfully. “A TIE pilot stationed on the _Accuser._ One of the very people responsible for the destruction of your home.”

“ _No_ ,” Tycho grits out.

“Yes. And had you been a good Imperial rather than a traitorous snake, you would have remained at your post and understood why it had to happen. Instead you fled like a coward, and what good has it done you?”

“I've done good,” Tycho insists, swallowing to wet his dry throat. “With the Rebellion–”

The recording plays again, pauses just as the superlaser of the Death Star meets with the peaceful planet. Tycho stares.

“How are you feeling, Tycho?” Isard asks with feigned gentleness as she puts the recording on a loop, the same few seconds of Alderaan being destroyed stabbing into his consciousness again and again and again. “Heart racing? Palms sweaty?”

“'M _fine_ ,” he forces out, though with the way his throat is closing up, the words are barely recognizable.

Isard grins. “Bravado won't help you.”

Tycho squeezes his eyes closed, and yet he can see the blue and green of his homeworld evaporating behind his lids. His heart thunders in his ears, blood rushing. He can't breathe, and now the panic attack is on him in full force. He struggles against his bonds, chest heaving as he struggles to draw in breath.

“Look at how weak you are,” Isard says, and the words are almost sympathetic. “A simple video recording, a few harsh words, and you fall apart utterly.”

“ _No_ ,” Tycho whimpers, and that was a mistake, taking every bit of the tiny amount of oxygen he'd managed to drag into his lungs. She's baiting him, using his weakness against him, and there's nothing he can do about it.

“Yes,” Isard says lightly. “Weak. Helpless. Honestly, not even worth my time. But you're such an enjoyable plaything.”

Tycho's vision is starting to go dark around the edges. He's going to pass out if he can't manage to calm himself down, but in the room with his torturer, he can't manage to concentrate of any of the mantras or calming exercises he's learned over the years.

His chest aches from the lack of air, and his head is pounding. This is what dying feels like. A slower version of what his family and friends on Alderaan went through.

Electricity races through the rack again, jolting his entire body violently, and he gasps on instinct, but even that doesn't work to get air in. He panics, throat working helplessly – _weak, helpless_ , Isard's voice echoes in his mind – and finally the darkness lances across his vision, sapping consciousness from him.

 

Dozens of systems away, Wedge sits on a balcony under a trio of pastel moons, hand curled around his forearm. The device implanted there vibrates frenetically – if he moved his hand, he has no doubt he would be able to see his skin shuddering. His only remaining connection to Tycho, his heartbeat radiating inside Wedge's own body.

It used to be a comfort on long missions spent away from each other. A simple romantic indulgence, really, just a pair of tiny transmitters allowing them to feel each other's heartbeats no matter where they are in the galaxy.

Now, it feels more like a curse. Not unlike this entire victory tour celebration, honestly. Wedge wasn't terribly fond of the idea in the first place, but once his partner went missing during his mission to Coruscant and yet Command still refused to recall Wedge for a rescue effort...

“Wedge?”

Wedge swallows hard and looks up to see his partner on the diplomatic endeavor, Pash Cracken, emerging from inside the palace. “I image the dignitaries are missing me?” Wedge asks him and can hear how bitter and rough his own voice sounds.

Pash frowns. “Yeah. Are you all right?”

Wedge shakes his head and glances down at his arm, fingers pressing on the transmitter again. “Something's wrong with Tycho.”

Pash crosses the balcony and takes a seat beside him. “How can you tell?”

Wedge's fingers clench on his own flesh. “His heart rate is all wrong. He – he has panic attacks. Had. A lot of people don't know. I think this is what it feels like.” He tries to breathe through frustration. It's maddening to feel so close to Tycho but not be able to do anything to help him. “He's hurting. Someone's hurting him, Pash.”

“I'm sorry.” Pash lays a hand on Wedge's other arm and squeezes. “I can't imagine what this is like for you.”

“It's torture,” Wedge says without a second thought. “I would give anything to have him home safe again.”

“Of course you would,” Pash says with genuine sympathy. Then he smiles, just a little. “I'm honestly surprised you haven't flown off on a one-man rescue mission yet.”

Wedge drops his face into his hands. “I wanted to. I still want to.”

“But even Wedge Antilles can't take Imperial Center by himself.”

The teasing is gentle, and though it doesn't actually make him feel any better, Wedge gives Pash a strained smile for trying. “Exactly.”

Pash stands. “Come back inside. At least you can distract yourself with good food and terrible politicians. We'll get him back, Wedge, I know it.”

Wedge doesn't respond for long moments as he concentrates on Tycho's heartbeat. It's slowing now, returning to normal, and he thinks that's good. He's at least getting a break from whatever's happening to him. Though how long it will last, who can say?

As long as the steady beat doesn't stop entirely. That's a thought that terrifies Wedge more than anything else in the galaxy.


End file.
